


A Summoning In Soho

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Az and Crow do not have any sex, Fluff, Humor, Light BDSM, M/M, Other, mentions of BDSM in Tracy's Job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-24 16:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Young Madame Tracy gets a new client. A fussy gentleman in antique clothing who wants advice on what to do about a man he's fallen for. Tracy does her best to impress him with fake demonic spells that turn out not to be fake after all and she accidentally summons a demon. Awkwardness ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love Madam Tracy's character so much in the show, so I wanted to explore her back story a bit and it evolved into a full blown fic. There are so many stories in the fandom to explore! I hope you enjoy, and as always, I live for ya'lls comments and kudos.

Marjorie Potts was a bit down on her luck. She’d had a falling out with her parents several years prior, who, when she’d refused to find a “nice man and settle down” but had also refused to go to secretarial school, to “get a real job” had tossed her out of the house. They’d grown tired of her plans to become a singer and a dancer (she was obsessed with ABBA). For three years, they’d watched, sighing with tacit disapproval as she’d pranced around the house in spangled outfits with too much of her mother’s blue eye shadow on, singing “Dancing Queen” and "Fernando" at the top of her lungs and undulating in ways that made her father’s mouth draw up into a thin, angry line. Her singing plans, which were sort of dashed on the rocks of reality when several people informed her that her voice was patchy, reedy and off tune, then morphed into her plans to become a stage magician (She was equally obsessed with David Copperfield). My wasn’t David handsome and suave and my didn’t his trousers fit him just right. And he’d made the Grand Canyon disappear!

Marjorie dreamed of a day when she’d be up on stage, bathed in pink and gold spotlights, dressed in something revealing (yet tasteful) and preferably covered in sequins, whilst she wow’d the audience with feats of prestidigitation. She’d invested way too much of her (parent’s) money in this venture, and after multiple failed attempts to learn a series of card tricks and trying and failing to pull coins from the ears of any friends and family who would stand still long enough for her to practice on them (the coins often dropped from her clumsy fingers into their dinner plates or rolled away down the sidewalk), she gave up her dreams of being a famous magician. 

She was 23 at this point, and having chosen not to go to university, and having turned her nose up at the small array of “real jobs” available to young women in the early 80s, she’d ended up on the street. She’d then had to hold her nose and get a job waiting tables at a pub in Soho. It was grueling and utterly not-at-all glamorous and her hair smelled of fish and chips at the end of every shift, but it kept her from homelessness. She made enough in tips (she was quite attractive) to rent a tiny, one room flat above a night club, even if she had to use ear plugs to sleep at night to drown out the thumping music that throbbed its way up through the floor. 

Eventually, she grew used to the noise of the club, and grew used to being on her feet six and seven hours at a stretch (the pub was thankfully a busy one) and she’d sort of settled into a life of relative obscurity and hard work. It was better than sitting in an office, typing for some old stuffed shirt of a boss all day like her parents had wanted. And it was loads better than settling down with some boring bloke in a jumper and having children. She longed for a glamorous life, but she’d settle for freedom and the security that came with really good tips. 

She went on dates with a few of the men from the pub who asked for her number while she served them ale and chips.. The handsome ones that didn’t pinch her on the bum or stare relentlessly at her chest that is. Some of them were nice. She liked sex and wasn’t opposed to having it quite often, and being that she was a very attractive petite blond with a lovely face and a spunky, outgoing manner, she had no shortage of willing partners. 

It was on one of the aforementioned dates that she discovered BDSM. Back then, it was referred to simply as “S&M” (sado-masochism) and not a lot was known about it. In the early 80s, the public’s only exposure to S&M was through goofy movies like Nine To Five, and those who were portrayed as liking it weren’t represented very favorably. Marjorie had been confused at first when the handsome young man she’d been snogging on the couch in her small flat had kept placing her hand against his throat. What was he expecting her to do? After several failed attempts to non verbally express what he wanted (Marjory kept removing her hand from his neck to tenderly stroke his cheek or run gentle fingers through his hair, which strangely made him sigh in frustration) he’d come out and asked for what he needed.

“Would you.. Um.. would you… choke me a little?” he’d asked sheepishly. She’d pulled back and regarded him with disbelief plain in her eyes. 

“You want me to what?”

“Ch-choke me a little. Or.. I don’t know. Pull my hair really hard. You could also call me a useless wanker… if you wanted to” He seemed suddenly very bashful and his face had turned crimson. 

Marjorie had given it a moment’s thought, and being an accommodating and adventurous girl, she’d complied. She was shocked and pleased at how quickly her date turned into a trembling mess when she did as he asked and yanked back on his hair, calling him an “insufferable twat” in a sharp, disapproving voice as she did so.  _ My! Wasn’t this interesting? _

In the weeks after that fateful night, she’d looked at the adverts in the local paper and had seen that quite a few men would be willing to pay for this sort of treatment. And they’d pay quite a bit of money. She’d sent away to a few very seedy sounding publishing companies for a few choice books and had read up on the practice of domination and submission. It was fascinating and she found that while she wasn’t exactly turned on by the prospect of digging her high heeled foot into a man’s chest while slapping him about the face with a rubber flogger, that it didn’t disturb her in the slightest. 

Perhaps she had found her calling? The job definitely had about it an element of glamour. And as an added benefit, she could wear all sorts of fun, revealing outfits and tall, spiky shoes. She put out an advert in the paper and waited.

The response was immediate. Her first client was a shy suburban commuter in a cheap suit who wore wire rimmed spectacles and clutched his briefcase in front of him nervously while discussing fees and limits with her during their consultation. To her mild surprise though, he turned into something quite different the moment Marjorie’s faux leather cat-o-9 tails whipped against his bare bottom. She was fascinated by the way the man turned from a sad and rumpled office worker to a blushing, writhing, begging supplicant in a matter of minutes. He’d asked her to call him a “bad little boy” and she’d happily complied, yelling at him as if he were an errant school boy who’d refused to do his homework. He’d veritably glowed with arousal. It was a thrilling thing to watch. She was hooked. 

She swiftly developed a rather extensive client list. There were no shortage of men who wanted a pretty, petite blond to slap them around and call them rude names. Within six months she’d saved up enough to quit her job at the pub and move into a two bedroom flat. 

All she needed was a convincing front to take attention away from the fact that she was a dominatrix for hire. Prostitution was illegal, and while she remained fully clothed for her S&M sessions with the men, they invariably all "finished" as it were at some point during the process, and so she would need to be careful and discreet so as to not draw too much attention from the jaded Soho police officers that walked the local beat. 

She’d seen signs, garish and neon, glowing above a few local shops that advertised fortune telling, and so she’d thought she’d give that a try as well. It had all the elements of glamour and performance art that she loved and it seemed a natural fit. She bought herself a deck of tarot cards and a crystal ball, and was pleased to discover that the wigs and lacy clothing she kept on hand for her dominatrix business dovetailed quite nicely with creating an air of otherworldly mystery for her fortune telling business. She read up on the occult and fortune telling and Astrology and numerology and satanic lore, just to round out her education. 

People were gullible and the few clients she did manage to pull in (she didn’t need them as much as her S&M clients who were the ones that really paid the bills) were eager to hear her dramatic, made up tales about departed loved ones and “tall, dark strangers”. 

To her utter surprise and delight, she actually did quite well with the soothsaying and fortune telling. People were sad and desperate and they wanted answers that the real, rational world couldn’t give them. They would pay quite a bit of money to learn that aunt Agnes was happy beyond the veil, or that their daughter would meet and marry a nice man (“with a ‘G’ in his name”). She always kept the fortunes nebulous and positive, never wanting to hurt or worry people with dark prognostications. 

Marjorie Potts was a decidedly un-glamorous name and so she’d changed it to “Madame Tracy”. It was a moniker that fit for her dominatrix business as well. By the late 80s, right around the time she’d turned 30, she was pulling in six to seven hundred pounds a week from her combined businesses. She hadn’t spoken to her parents since they’d kicked her out, and she doubted they’d be proud of the way she made her money, but she was happy with her life. She was idolized, worshiped, desired, and trusted by her clients. She got to live a glamorous (if somewhat secretive) life that she found fulfilling, and she was very financially stable. 

A few years into her duel practice she was able to purchase a small, slightly run down walk up in Soho. She even rented the rooms across the hall to a serious young man, calling himself “Sargent Shadwell”, who, while he looked at her with sharp disapproval in his eyes and kept going on about witches and nipples (everyone had their kinks didn’t they?) paid his rent on time and wasn’t all that bad of a tenant. 

Things had settled into a pleasant routine, with her doing dominatrix work and fortune telling by appointment. Little did she know that she was about to meet a very special sort of client, and that their lives were to become very inextricably and very strangely mixed up together in the decades to come… 


	2. Chapter 2

One warm June evening in 1988, Tracy had just finished seeing a client, (a wealthy corporate CEO who’d come in pinched and pale and brusque and who’d left loose and warm and with a very large smile on his face), and was just preparing to head upstairs to have a nice cuppa and a few tokes on a joint, when she heard a knock on the door. 

It was late, past ten thirty pm and she usually didn’t expect anyone to come looking for a walk in appointment at this time, so rather than open the door, she twitched aside the gauzy, purple curtains she hung over the front windows and peeked out. A man stood on her front step. A rather interesting and dramatic looking man. 

He wore a pale jacket and had wild white hair, and she could immediately tell by the nervous way he held himself that he wouldn’t be giving her any trouble. She sensed somehow that this was a rather nice person. Reassured that he wasn’t a hooligan of some sort, she opened the door a crack. “May I help you?” She asked, still sounding a touch suspicious. 

“Hello ma’am… May I come in? I have need of your services” the man asked in a very pleasant and sonorous voice, that simultaneously portrayed a great deal of worry simmering beneath the surface. 

“I’m sorry dear, but I’m not available for the provision of personal relaxation services at the moment. You’ll need to return during normal business hours.”

“Personal relaxation services?” The man asked in a voice that clearly betrayed confusion. “What sort of…”

“Oh!” It suddenly dawned on Tracy that perhaps he might not be interested in S&M. “You mean my services as a soothsayer and prognosticator then! Well of course! Please come right in!” She opened the door and ushered the man into her foyer, realizing as she got a better look at him, that perhaps she might be the wrong gender for him in the first place.

He had about him a dainty, fussy sort of air. His clothing, which upon closer inspection, looked like something Tracy’s grandfather might have worn on his wedding day, was well tailored, but several decades out of style. He wore a long, cream colored jacket, a fawn colored velveteen waistcoat and a tartan bow tie. He was an older man, probably late 40s, early 50s? And he was quite handsome, with large hazel eyes, a pert nose and a soft, well shaped mouth. His hair, now that she could see it up close, was less white and more a white-blond, and it stuck out in all directions, despite the fact that he’d clearly tried to tame it with a comb. 

He walked with a hesitant step and kept his hands clutched in front of him nervously, and there was something about his manner that suggested pretty immediately to Tracy that no...he probably wasn’t interested in women. 

“May I take your coat?” She asked. It was warm out and she wondered at him wearing a coat in the first place and noticed that he didn’t appear to sweat at all. He nodded politely and shrugged out of it, handing it to her. She caught a heavenly whiff of vanilla and cinnamon as she hung it on a hook in the foyer. 

“I’m ever so grateful that you could take the time to see me” he was saying, with that same mix of musical sweetness with an undertone of nervous worry. “There’s been something that’s been bothering me and I wanted to know if perhaps someone with your...er… special gifts might give me some insight into it.”

“Well deary, I’ll do my best” Tracy lead him to the sitting room where she held seances and tarot readings. The gentleman looked well off and she mentally prepared to pull out the big guns in order to impress him. “My readings are $50 per half hour, and sometimes it does take quite a bit of time to reach beyond the veil and make contact with those who’ve shuffled off the mortal coil as it were. Would you be paying cash or check?” 

"I can pay cash" the man said as he fished a 50 pound note out of his inner breast pocket and swiftly handed it to Tracy. Tracy, who just as swiftly tucked it into the lacy corner of her just-visible-enough bright red bra. 

"I don’t wish to make contact with the erm.. Dead." The man continued in a halting tone. "Rather, I had a question... about a certain... person?”

“Ah.. Alright then…” Tracy decided that she’d employ the crystal ball for this one, as it had could be used to more dramatic effect than the tarot cards. The strange fellow was already eyeing the thing with mild curiosity. “What would you like to know deary?” Tracy asked

“Well…” The man was clearly a bit uncomfortable with the subject he’d brought up. He placed his well formed hands on the velvet tablecloth in front of him and frowned down at them for a moment before continuing. “There’s this man”

“I see.” Tracy said knowingly. “Someone you’re… interested in?” She wanted to tread carefully in case her previous assumption had been off. 

“Well yes” the man replied and blushed. _ Bingo! _ Thought Tracy. “There’s this ...man that I.. that I.. have developed some rather strong feelings for” And though her new client seemed uncomfortable with the subject, Tracy could somehow tell that it wasn’t the fact that he was interested romantically in _ another man _ that was what was causing the nervousness. There were no guilty glances in her direction to gauge her reaction. He didn’t validate his statement with an explanation about his background or his lifestyle. He simply looked worriedly at his hands. Which was very strange indeed. Gay men at that time in London, during the height of the AIDS crisis often carried quite a bit of anxiety and shame around discussing their sexual orientation with a stranger. This man however, she could tell, was focusing his worry on the specific object of his interest, rather than on the broader cultural anxieties that came with being gay in 1988. 

Over the years of doing this type of work (both the fortune telling _ and _ the S&M work), she’d become a very good judge of character and had learned a lot about body language. It helped with cold readings. This man was unlike any other client she’d ever had. There was a purity and an innocence about him that one didn’t usually see in gay men in this neighborhood in Soho in the late 1980s where drug addiction, homelessness and crime were sometimes an issue. And yet, he simultaneously seemed wise and self assured in ways that belied his nervousness. _ He must be a professor from over at the university _ she thought. 

“This person is very near and dear to me.” The man continued “We’re very close… friends I suppose you could call it. Yes.. friends” _ How strange _ . He seemed uncomfortable with labeling this mystery man a friend. “And we’ve spent quite a bit of time together over the years. And I fear I’ve... fallen rather deeply in love with him” The strange man finished in a soft voice. He then looked up and met Tracy’s eyes and she was struck by the depths of the sadness she saw in his gaze, and by how very handsome he truly was. Probably one of the most handsome men she’d seen around these parts. But it was more than handsomeness. His face was simply very very _ appealing. _

“Well, whoever he is deary, he’d be a fool not to love you” she said, immediately marveling at how forward she was being. She’d rarely said anything so blatantly familiar and complimentary to a stranger before. But there was just something about him… “Why don’t you tell me a bit more about this lucky gentleman and then we’ll consult the spirit world for their thoughts on the subject”. 

“Jolly good. Well my .. friend..he’s rather glamorous and very.. Impulsive and he’s very different from me. He’s actually a bit of a ...rake.”

“Oooh” cooed Tracy with a suggestive raise of her eyebrows. “Sounds sexy.”

“Well.. yes. He is rather” The man admitted and rewarded her with a shy grin and another blush. “I certainly think so”.

“And what, pray tell is the holdup deary?” She asked “have you told him how you feel?”

“Oh dear Lord no!” The man exclaimed, his eyes going round as he put his hands up in front of him in the universal language of _ perish the thought. _“That wouldn’t do at all. We… well.. We work for opposing… organizations as it were.”

_ Ah. _Thought Tracy, words like ‘merger’ and ‘buyout’ and ‘acquisitions’ leaping to mind. The 80s thus far had ushered in a new age of relentless capitalism. Perhaps this man, despite looking more like a librarian than a CEO was the owner of a large company? Or a high level employee of one such company? Falling in love with the competition would be awkward wouldn’t it? “That would be uncomfortable” she said supportively. Simultaneously she pressed a switch with her foot beneath the table, and a gentle glow lit up in the center of the crystal ball.

The man barely seemed to notice the effect, but she continued undaunted “And what would you like to know deary? What shall we ask the spirits?” She waved her hands across the glowing surface of the crystal ball in a way she hoped looked dramatic and otherworldly. It helped that she was wearing multiple flashy rings of varying colored glass “gems” that sparkled in the dim, amber light of the sitting room. 

“I..I’d like to know if he’ll ever return my feelings” The man said in a soft voice. “And if we’ll ever have the chance to be together. It’s been weighing on me that he doesn’t… couldn’t ever feel the same way that I do.” 

“Ahhh. A good question. Let us see what the spirits have to say” Tracy closed her eyes and took a deep breath and prepared for her performance. She began with a low moan in the back of her throat, then another deep inhale...then another deep moan. People were usually dutifully impressed by this, believing her to be in the thralls of a deep connection with ‘the spirit realm’. 

“I say, ma’am, are you alright? You sound pained” to her minor irritation, her attempt to seem possessed by occult forces had flown directly over the man’s head. He was looking at her with gentle concern. _ Well _ she thought ruefully _ time to pull out all the stops. _

She abandoned the moaning breathing tactic and instead spoke in a voice she made sure sounded reverent and awed “Oh great spirit guides! Come hither! Approach and bestow upon us the wisdom of your… er…. Other worldly knowledge!” she dared to crack an eye open to peek at the strange gentleman to gauge his reaction. He was sitting patiently, looking at her with a polite expression on his face. _ Bollocks! He’s not buying it! _ She cursed inwardly. What could she do to impress him? At least to impress him enough so that he’d gladly shell over some more cash in the future…

And then it came to her in a flash! The demonic lore she’d studied up on a few months ago for times such as these (a skeptical client). There was a spell for summoning a demon in an ancient, possibly Latin based language she couldn’t quite remember at the time that had seemed appropriately dark and foreboding enough for the occasion. It was doubtful that the man across from her would recognize the language or that it was a summoning spell (rather than a spell to contact dead spirits for romantic advice). 

She quickly affected a deep, commanding voice and began speaking the words to the summoning spell with as much gravity and drama as she could. She was rather proud of how she sounded and mentally patted herself on the back for taking the time to memorize the short paragraph along her literary travels. She had quite a good memory, and it served her well when trying to sound authentic to suspicious clients. 

As she spoke however, she became aware of a change in the air around her. It was growing colder in the room and a low humming noise was coming from.. From where? From everywhere? She ignored it, chalking it up to an issue with the ancient plumbing in the house and continued. 

The room grew even colder. The humming grew louder. It was a bit disturbing, but she couldn’t very well quit now.. After sneaking another peek at the man across from her through her fake lashes, she was pleased to see a look of genuine surprise on his face. She was winning him over! And so she continued chanting, really hamming it up for him, by accompanying her words with dramatic motions with her bejeweled hands. She’d just have to call the plumber tomorrow to get to the bottom of the strange humming noise. 

She finished the spell with a final flourish, throwing her head back dramatically. There was a brief moment of silence then, in which she heard her client say wonderingly “wherever did you learn ancient Sardinian?” Then she felt a super heated gust of air break against her face and heard a loud popping noise.. 

And then everything got very very strange indeed…


	3. Chapter 3

Tracy opened her eyes to find a man had materialized on top of her sitting room table. She yelped in surprise and nearly fell over backwards in her chair at the sight of him. She leapt to her feet and backed hurriedly away from the table, not quite mentally processing what she was seeing. He was sitting, legs straddling her crystal ball, torso supported on his hands behind him, looking just as surprised as she was. 

Her client though, who’d risen to his feet as well upon the arrival of this mystery man atop the table had turned a deep shade of pink and was staring with what might have been horror at the man, his mouth open, jaw working as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

The man himself was quite an interesting character. He was decked out like the lead singer of a rock band in tight leather pants and a midriff revealing sleeveless fishnet tank top. He wore three narrow studded belts looped around his slender hips and nails of his hands where they rested behind him on the table were painted with black lacquer. His hair, a dark shade of red, was teased up into a wild mane that fell past his shoulders and he was wearing a pair of black, posh looking sunglasses in hot pink frames. And lipstick. Red lipstick. He was something to behold. 

Her client had apparently found the wherewithal to speak. “C-Crowley!” he stammered out. His face had gone from bright pink to very pale. 

“Wha? Where in Satan’s name have I got to?” The man asked in a voice suffused with confusion and incredulity. He turned his head to regard her client and Tracy saw his face light up with recognition “Aziraphale?!” he exclaimed. “What the devil are  _ you _ doing here? Where exactly  _ is  _ here?”

Tracy was beyond confused. “Oi!” she yelled at the man, careful to keep a few feet between herself and where he sat on the table. “Who are you and where did you come from??” The man turned to regard her as if just noticing she existed. His full lips pulled up into a sneer.

“Excuse me? I’d ask you the same question lady” he drawled in what she couldn’t help but notice was quite a sexy voice. “I was just in a club downtown, minding my own business and now I’m here, in some strange woman’s sitting room!” He turned to her client “Is she one of yours?” he asked in a stage whisper.

“N-no Crowley.. I thought, considering the circumstances that she might be one of yours” Aziraphale (was it?) responded in a hushed voice. 

“Well whomever she is, she successfully summoned me with some sort of spell” the man clambered slowly down from the top of the table to stand awkwardly, hands on his narrow hips, looking back and forth between a shocked Tracy and her now very flustered client. 

Tracy couldn’t help but let her eyes play slowly down the length of his body and then back up again. What a looker! The man practically oozed sex appeal, in much the same way that her client radiated innocent charm. But the more pressing matter was how had he arrived here, apparently out of thin air. She shook her head to clear it and turned to address her client. “You know this person?” She asked in a voice that shook slightly with increased adrenalin. 

“Um well yes” the man responded. His blush had returned full force. “But that’s of little consequence. I think it’s high time we got going, don’t you Crowley?” he asked the mysterious man in leather pants.

“Hold on a minute!” The man..’ _ Crowley _ ’ apparently, turned to face the other man in an accusatory manner. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, in the sitting room of a..” he paused briefly to glance around the room at the decor and to give Tracy an up and down look of his own, “prostitute?” he finished uncertainly. 

“Excuse me sir!” she interjected angrily. “I am  _ not _ a prostitute! I’m a soothsayer, a fortune teller and a…a.. supplier of intimate relaxation services!”

“Relaxation services huh? Yeah. OK. Sure”.

She did  _ not _ like the red haired man’s tone one bit.

Before Tracy could give him what for however, he’d turned back to address her client, who looked like he might be about to spontaneously combust, if the state of his flushed cheeks and anguished facial expression were any indication. “Angel, what in Satan’s name is going on here?” 

“Oh… oh. Nothing at all Crowley. I simply thought it might be interesting to visit a prognosticator to get a second opinion on an.. an...issue I’m having” the man stammered out. 

“What sort of issue angel?” The other man looked mildly offended for some reason. “Something you can’t talk about with me? What’s this about?” He took a step closer to the blond man, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch him on the shoulder. Her client’s blush deepened and shied away from the other man’s touch, taking a few hurried steps around the table to stand next to Tracy.

“Oh nothing of importance Crowley! Nothing you’d be interested to know about. It was a deeply personal matter”

Tracy decided to step in “Here now!” she barked, moving to stand between the two men. “You can’t go intimidating one of my clients! He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and honestly, it’s a confidential matter between the two of us!”

The red haired man (Crowley?) surprisingly burst into laughter “Oh I  _ like _ her angel! Where’d you find her?”

“In an advert in the Soho Times” the man behind her mumbled in response. “It was a lark that clearly went pear shaped Crowley.” Tracy couldn’t hear any fear or anger in his tone, which spoke well of this not being a situation with a jealous lover or some sort of seedy connection between the two. In fact, she’d heard a similar tone in her own voice over the years when she’d spoken to a man she found attractive. It was sexual tension. 

Suddenly she understood. She looked back and forth between the two and could see it clear as day.  _ THIS  _ was the rakish bad boy that her client was in love with! “Oh my!” she breathed, losing her professional composure for a moment. She pointed a finger at Crowley. “You..you must be..”

“He’s no one of consequence!” her client interrupted her abruptly, now moving to stand between Tracy and the other man. “Really madam, he’s no one to concern yourself with.. And… and...I think it’s time we were going!”

“Hang on a minute” Crowley piped up in a suspicious voice. “What do you mean? Who do you think I am?” Turning swiftly to address the other man.. Aziraphale..  _ What a strange name _ Tracy thought absently, “Angel, she…  _ summoned me!”  _ he growled through clenched teeth. “How on  _ earth _ did she do that? And why did she point at me like that just now?”

Aziraphale ( _ was that Polish? Hungarian maybe? _ ) looked panicked. He waved his hands swiftly in front of him in a dismissive manner “It’s  _ nothing _ Crowley. Please don’t listen to her. She’s clearly got the wrong idea” 

“And what idea is that?!” Crowley was growing irritable

“As for her… summoning you” Aziraphale continued as if Crowley hadn’t spoken. “I was rather surprised to discover that she knows an ancient Sardinian demon summoning spell… Color me flabbergasted!” 

Tracy felt the blood drain from her face. “You mean” she began in a tremulous voice. “It… worked? My spell… worked?” She turned wide eyes to Crowley who was glaring at her from behind his dark shades, mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval. “That must mean that you… you…” 

He slowly lifted his shades and showed her a glimpse of impossibly yellow eyes, shot through with inky black slits “Boo” he said softly. 

Before Tracy could fully process this strange sight, Aziraphale had grabbed Crowley by the arm and was attempting to drag him from the room. “Come now my dear! Time to leave this poor woman alone and head home! Can’t be overstaying our welcome!”

Crowley grinned at her and didn’t budge. He shook off Aziraphale’s hand and turned his attention away from a shocked Tracy to interrogate the other man again. “Angel, she interrupted a very pleasant evening I was having, tempting very drunk people into doing very stupid things. You owe me an explanation of exactly why I was summoned here and what you were discussing with her”. 

“Crowley please” the other man looked truly distraught. “I was simply struggling with something and needed an outside perspective”

At this, the red haired man’s face softened considerably. “You… you’re struggling with something?” he asked in a gentle voice.  _ Oh my _ Thought Tracy.  _ I don’t think my client has much to worry about where mutual attraction is concerned _ . It was pretty clear to her, even in the midst of this very strange situation, that the sexy, copper haired man was besotted with the blond gentleman. “Why can’t you talk to  _ me _ about it angel?” He took a small step closer to Aziraphale, who took another small step back and gulped audibly enough so that even Tracy could hear it. 

“I… Um… there are just some things that I can’t talk about with you...comfortably”. Tracy watched as a look of genuine hurt crept over Crowley’s face. His shoulders slumped slightly and took a step back, deflating a little 

“Oh.. well.. Ok. I suppose I understand that. What with us being… you know.. On opposite sides and all” he dejectedly scuffed his shoe against Tracy’s worn oriental rug like a small boy who’d been told he couldn’t stay up late to wait for Santa. 

“Yes Crowley. Yes. That’s it. Opposite sides. It wouldn’t do to confide in you about  _ everything _ I was thinking would it? Might get us in trouble if they found out” He looked very sad for a moment, and Tracy’s heart went out for him. 

“Alright.. Well I suppose I should be going” Crowley said in a voice that sounded suddenly very tired. He nodded his head briefly at Tracy “Good job on the summoning. I’d refrain from doing that again though. Never know what you’ll get next time. Not every demon is a charmer like me”. Tracy nodded numbly, unsure of what to say in response. Unsure of anything anymore. 

With that Crowley sauntered out of the room and into the foyer. “See you later angel?” he asked over his shoulder

“Yes dear. I’ll see you later” Aziraphale responded gently. Then they both heard the door open and shut as Crowley let himself out onto the street. “Well!” Aziraphale said, clearly relieved that the other man was gone. “Wasn’t that exciting?”

Tracy was utterly at a loss “What just happened?” She asked in a weak voice. “Was he..? What was he? Did I?” She couldn’t seem to finish a coherent sentence. 

“It’s alright dear” Aziraphale had stepped closer and was now placing a warm, supportive hand on her shoulder. He helped her sit down in the chair by her soothsaying table and spoke softly to her in a reassuring voice. “I’d like you to have a little rest now. And when you wake, it will be from a lovely dream about whatever you like best” he gifted her with a warm, affectionate smile and then snapped his fingers. 

Tracy woke from a lovely dream in which she’d been snogging a scantily clad John Bonjovi on a beach in Hawaii. She felt rested, calm, relaxed. Happy… It was lovely. What had she been doing? Ah yes. She’d been headed upstairs to have a nice cup of tea and a few tokes on a joint she’d been saving for the end of her work day. That was it. She rose from the chair in her sitting room and was surprised to hear the grandfather clock in the hallway chiming midnight. She could have sworn it was only half past ten. 

She heard footsteps come down the stairs and saw Shadwell poke his head around the doorway to peer disapprovingly at her. It was too bad he was such a fuss bucket, for he was very handsome, in a pale, academic way. He scowled at her 

“Yer gentleman callers were makin too much noise madam! They woke me up from a dead sleep!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Shadwell” Tracy used her most patient, caring tone with him because she could tell it drove him bonkers. “I’ll attempt to keep it down when I have late night clients”

“I should think so! And maybe you could keep it to  _ one _ gentleman at a time instead of two at once!” His face clouded briefly with what she assumed was the effects of him imagining all sorts of sordid acts two men and one woman could get themselves up to. 

“Two? Why whatever do you mean sir? There was only Mr. Baker, and he left a few minutes ago. 

“You had  _ two men _ down here for the past hour madam. One of them sounded like a right southern pansy he did!”

Tracy dismissed his comments as the sleepy, prudish imaginings of a man who was probably sorely in need of a shag himself. She wondered absently if it might be time to have a go at trying to seduce him. “Why Mr. Shadwell” she purred as she walked slowly over to where he stood in the doorway, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn, nondescript trousers.. She stepped up close to him and looked up at him with an unmistakably wanton glimmer in her eyes “Are you jealous?”

“I...I… how.. How _ dare _ you imply such a thing?!” He spluttered nervously, face growing even paler as he backed away from her towards the stairs. “You’re a… a... shameless harlot!” he yelped and with that, he turned and fled back up to his rooms. Tracy grinned devilishly. She loved unsettling her stuffy tenant. Perhaps one day she’d manage to charm her way into his bed, but today wasn’t that day.

She sighed deeply and flipped the switch to turn off the downstairs lights, heading up to her own rooms, across from Shadwell’s. She was looking forward a nice soak in a hot bath and getting stoned and reading up on some new rope tying techniques in the book she’d purchased last week.

It had been a pleasant day all told. 


End file.
